LIFTED  BANDAGE 


UC-NRLF 


MARY  RAYMOND  SHIPMAN  ANDREWS 

Author  of  The  Perfect  Tribute 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

CERF  LIBRARY 

PRESENTED  BY 

REBECCA  CERF  *02 

IN  THE  NAMES  OF 

CHARLOTTE  CERF  '95 

MARCEL  E.  CERF  '97 

BARRY  CERF  '02 


IN    SIMILAR    FORM 

16mo,  Boards,  net  50c.    Leather,  net  $1.00 


Mary  Raymond  Shipman  Andrews 
The  Perfect  Tribute 
The  Lifted  Bandage 

Maltbie  Davenport  Babcock 

The  Success  of  Defeat 

Katharine  Holland  Brown 
The  Messenger 

Robert  Herrick 

The  Master  of  the  Inn 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

A  Christmas  Sermon 
Prayers  Written  at  Vailima 
Acs  Triplex 

Henry  van  Dyke 

School  of  Life 

The  Spirit  of  Christmas 


THE  LIFTED  BANDAGE 


THE 

LIFTED  BANDAGE 

By 
Mary  Raymond  Shipman  Andrews 

Author  of  "The  Perfect  Tribute,"  etc. 


NEW  YORK 

Charles  Scribner's  Sons 

1910 


Copyright,  1910,  by  Charles  Scribncr's  Sons 


Published  March,  1910 


THE  LIFTED  BANDAGE 

THE  man  let  himself  into  his 
front  door  and,  staggering 
lightly,  like  a  drunken  man, 
as  he  closed  it,  walked  to  the  hall 
table,  and  mechanically  laid  down 
his  hat,  but  still  wearing  his  over 
coat  turned  and  went  into  his  library, 
and  dropped  on  the  edge  of  a  divan 
and  stared  out  through  the  leaded 
panes  of  glass  across  the  room  facing 
him.  The  grayish  skin  of  his  face 
seemed  to  fall  in  diagonal  furrows, 
from  the  eyes,  from  the  nose,  from 
the  mouth.  He  sat,  still  to  his 
finger-tips,  staring. 

He  was  sitting  so  when  a  servant 
slipped  in  and  stood  motionless  a 
[1] 


M567289 


THE  LIFTED  BANDAGE 
minute,  and  went  to  the  wide  window 
where  the  west  light  glared  through 
leafless  branches  outside,  and  drew 
the  shades  lower,  and  went  to  the 
fireplace  and  touched  a  match. 
Wood  caught  and  crackled  and  a 
cheerful  orange  flame  flew  noisily 
up  the  chimney,  but  the  man  sitting 
on  the  divan  did  not  notice.  The 
butler  waited  a  moment,  watching, 
hesitating,  and  then: 

"Have  you  had  lunch,  sir?"  he 
asked  in  a  tentative,  gentle  voice. 

The  staring  eyes  moved  with  an 
effort  and  rested  on  the  servant's 
face.  "Lunch?"  he  repeated,  ap 
parently  trying  to  focus  on  the  mean 
ing  of  the  word.  "Lunch?  I  don't 
know,  Miller.  But  don't  bring  any 
thing." 

With  a  great  anxiety  in  his  face 


THE  LIFTED  BANDAGE 
Miller  regarded  his  master.     "  Would 
you    let    me    take    your    overcoat, 
Judge? — you'll   be   too   warm,"   he 
said. 

He  spoke  in  a  suppressed  tone  as 
if  waiting  for,  fearing  something,  as 
if  longing  to  show  sympathy,  and  the 
man  stood  and  let  himself  be  cared 
for,  and  then  sat  down  again  in  the 
same  unrestful,  fixed  attitude,  gaz 
ing  out  again  through  the  glittering 
panes  into  the  stormy,  tawny  west 
sky.  Miller  came  back  and  stood 
quiet,  patient;  in  a  few  minutes  the 
man  seemed  to  become  aware  of  him. 

"I  forgot,  Miller.  You'll  want  to 
know,"  he  said  in  a  tone  which  went 
to  show  an  old  bond  between  the 
two.  'You'll  be  sorry  to  hear,  Mil 
ler,"  he  said — and  the  dull  eyes 
moved  difficultly  to  the  anxious  ones, 

[3] 


THE  LIFTED  BANDAGE 
and    his    voice    was    uninflected — 
"you'll  be  sorry  to  know  that  the 
coroner's  jury  decided  that  Master 
Jack  was  a  murderer." 

The  word  came  more  horribly 
because  of  an  air  of  detachment 
from  the  man's  mind.  It  was  like  a 
soulless,  evil  mechanism,  running 
unguided.  Miller  caught  at  a  chair. 

"I  don't  believe  it,  sir,"  he  gasped. 
"No  lawyer  shall  make  me.  I've 
known  him  since  he  was  ten,  Judge, 
and  they're  mistaken.  It's  not  any 
mere  lawyers  can  make  me  believe 
that  awful  thing,  sir,  of  our  Master 
Jack."  The  servant  was  shaking 
from  head  to  foot  with  intense  re 
jection,  and  the  man  put  up  his  hand 
as  if  to  ward  off  his  emotion. 

"I  wish  I  could  agree  with  you," 
he  said  quietly,  and  then  added, 

[4] 


THE  LIFTED  BANDAGE 
"Thank  you,  Miller."     And  the  old 
butler,  walking  as  if  struck  with  a 
sickness,  was  gone. 

The  man  sat  on  the  edge  of  the 
divan  staring  out  of  the  window, 
minute  after  minute;  the  November 
wind  tossed  the  clean,  black  lines  of 
the  branches  backward  and  forward 
against  the  copper  sky,  as  if  a  giant 
hand  moved  a  fan  of  sea-weed  be 
fore  a  fire.  The  man  sat  still  and 
stared.  The  sky  dulled;  the  deli 
cate,  wild  branches  melted  together; 
the  diamond  lines  in  the  window 
blurred;  yet,  unmoved,  unseeing, 
the  eyes  stared  through  them. 

The  burr  of  an  electric  bell  sound 
ed;  some  one  came  in  at  the  front 
door  and  came  to  the  door  of  the 
library,  but  the  fixed  figure  did  not 
stir.  The  newcomer  stood  silent  a 
[5] 


THE  LIFTED  BANDAGE 
minute,  two  minutes;   a  young  man 
in  clerical  dress,  boyish,  with  gray, 
serious  eyes.     At  length  he  spoke. 

"May  I  come  in  ?     It's  Dick." 

The  man's  head  turned  slowly  and 
his  look  rested  inquiringly  on  his 
nephew.  It  was  a  minute  before  he 
said,  as  if  recognizing  him,  "Dick. 
Yes."  And  set  himself  as  before  to  the 
persistent  gazing  through  the  window. 

"I  lost  you  at  the  court-house," 
the  younger  man  said.  "I  didn't 
mean  to  let  you  come  home  alone." 

"Thank  you,  Dick."  It  seemed 
as  if  neither  joy  nor  sorrow  would 
find  a  way  into  the  quiet  voice  again. 

The  wind  roared;  the  boughs 
rustled  against  the  glass;  the  fire, 
soberly  settled  to  wrork,  steamed  and 
crackled;  the  clock  ticked  indiffer 
ently;  there  was  no  other  sound  in 
[6] 


THE  LIFTED  BANDAGE 
the  room;  the  two  men  were  silent, 
the  one  staring  always  before  him, 
the  other  sitting  with  a  hand  on  the 
older  man's  hand,  waiting.  Minutes 
they  sat  so,  and  the  wintry  sky  out 
side  darkened  and  lay  sullenly  in 
bands  of  gray  and  orange  against  the 
windows;  the  light  of  the  logs  was 
stronger  than  the  daylight;  it  flick 
ered  carelessly  across  the  ashiness 
of  the  emotionless  face.  The  young 
man,  watching  the  face,  bent  for 
ward  and  gripped  his  other  hand  on 
the  unresponsive  one  in  his  clasp. 

" Uncle,"  he  asked,  "will  it  make 
things  worse  if  I  talk  to  you?" 

"No,  Dick." 

Nothing  made  a  difference,  it 
seemed.  Silence  or  words  must  sim 
ply  fall  without  effect  on  the  rock 
bottom  of  despair.  The  young  man 

[7] 


THE  LIFTED  BANDAGE 
halted,  as  if  dismayed,  before  this 
overpowering  inertia  of  hopelessness ; 
he  drew  a  quick  breath. 

"A  coroner's  jury  isn't  infallible. 
I  don't  believe  it  of  Jack — a  lot  of 
people  don't  believe  it,"  he  said. 

The  older  man  looked  at  him 
heavily.  "You'd  say  that.  Jack's 
friends  will.  I've  been  trained  to 
weigh  evidence — I  must  believe  it." 

"Listen,"  the  young  man  urged. 
"Don't  shut  down  the  gates  like 
that.  I'm  not  a  lawyer,  but  I've 
been  trained  to  think,  too,  and  I 
believe  you're  not  thinking  squarely. 
There's  other  evidence  that  counts 
besides  this.  There's  Jack — his  per 
sonality.' 

"It  has  been  taken  into  considera 
tion." 

"It  can't  be  taken  into  considera- 

[8] 


THE  LIFTED  BANDAGE 
tion  by  strangers — it  needs  years  of 
intimacy  to  weigh  that  evidence  as  I 
can  weigh  it — as  you —  You  know 
best  of  all,"  he  cried  out  impulsively, 
"if  you'll  let  yourself  know,  how  im 
possible  it  was.  That  Jack  should 
have  bought  that  pistol  and  taken  it 
to  Ben  Armstrong's  rooms  to  kill 
him — it  was  impossible — impossi 
ble!"  The  clinched  fist  came  down 
on  the  black  broadcloth  knee  with  the 
conviction  of  the  man  behind  it.  The 
words  rushed  like  melted  metal,  hot, 
stinging,  not  to  be  stopped.  The  judge 
quivered  as  if  they  had  stung  through 
the  callousness,  touched  a  nerve.  A 
faint  color  crawled  to  his  cheeks ;  for 
the  first  time  he  spoke  quickly,  as  if 
his  thoughts  connected  with  some 
thing  more  than  gray  matter. 

"You  talk  about  my  not  allowing 
[9] 


THE  LIFTED  BANDAGE 
myself  to  believe  in  Jack.  You 
seem  not  to  realize  that  such  a  belief 
would — might — stand  between  me 
and  madness.  I've  been  trying  to 
adjust  myself  to  a  possible  scheme 
of  living — getting  through  the  years 
till  I  go  into  nothingness.  I  can't. 
All  I  can  grasp  is  the  feeling  that  a 
man  might  have  if  dropped  from  a 
balloon  and  forced  to  stay  gasping  in 
the  air,  with  no  place  in  it,  nothing 
to  hold  to,  no  breath  to  draw,  no 
earth  to  rest  on,  no  end  to  hope  for. 
There  is  nothing  beyond." 

"Everything  is  beyond,"  the  young 
man  cried  triumphantly.  "  'The 
end/  as  you  call  it,  is  an  end  to 
hope  for — it  is  the  beginning.  The 
beginning  of  more  than  you  have 
ever  had — with  them,  with  the  people 
you  care  about." 

[10] 


THE  LIFTED  BANDAGE 
The  judge  turned  a  ghastly  look 
upon  the  impetuous,  bright  face. 
"If  I  believed  that,  I  should  be  even 
now  perfectly  happy.  I  don't  see 
how  you  Christians  can  ever  be 
sorry  when  your  friends  die — it's 
childish;  anybody  ought  to  be  able 
to  wait  a  few  years.  But  I  don't 
believe  it,"  he  said  heavily,  and  went 
on  again  as  if  an  inertia  of  speech 
were  carrying  him  as  an  inertia  of 
silence  had  held  him  a  few  minutes 
before.  "When  my  wife  died  a 
year  ago  it  ended  my  personal  life, 
but  I  could  live  Jack's  life.  I  was 
glad  in  the  success  and  honor  of  it. 
Now  the  success — "  he  made  a  gest 
ure.  "And  the  honor — if  I  had 
that,  only  the  honor  of  Jack's  life 
left,  I  think  I  could  finish  the  years 
with  dignity.  I've  not  been  a  bad 
[ii] 


THE  LIFTED  BANDAGE 
man — I've  done  my  part  and  lived 
as  seemed  right.  Before  I'm  old  the 
joy  is  wiped  out  and  long  years  left. 
Why  ?  It's  not  reasonable — not  logi 
cal.  With  one  thing  to  hold  to, 
with  Jack's  good  name,  I  might  live. 
How  can  I,  now  ?  What  can  I  do  ? 
A  life  must  have  a  raison  d'etre." 

"Listen,"  the  clergyman  cried 
again.  'You  are  not  judging  Jack 
as  fairly  as  you  would  judge  a  com 
mon  criminal.  You  know  better 
than  I  how  often  juries  make  mis 
takes — why  should  you  trust  this 
jury  to  have  made  none?" 

"I  didn't  trust  the  jury.  I  watched 
as  I  have  never  before  known  how 
to  watch  a  case.  I  felt  my  mind 
more  clear  and  alert  than  common." 

"Alert!"  he  caught  at  the  word. 
"But  alert  on  the  side  of  terror — 

[12] 


THE  LIFTED  BANDAGE 
abnormally  clear  to  see  what  you 
dreaded.  Because  you  are  fair- 
minded,  because  it  has  been  the 
habit  of  your  life  to  correct  at  once 
any  conscious  prejudice  in  your 
judgment,  you  have  swayed  to  the 
side  of  unfairness  to  yourself,  to 
Jack.  Uncle,"  he  flashed  out, 
"would  it  tear  your  soul  to  have  me 
state  the  case  as  I  see  it?  I  might, 
you  know — I  might  bring  out  some 
thing  that  would  make  it  look  dif 
ferent." 

Almost  a  smile  touched  the  gray 
lines  of  his  face.  "If  you  wish." 

The  young  man  drew  himself  into 
his  chair  and  clasped  his  hands 
around  his  knee.  "Here  it  is.  Mr. 
Newbold,  on  the  seventh  floor  of  the 
Bruzon  bachelor  apartments,  heard 
a  shot  at  one  in  the  morning,  next 

[13] 


THE  LIFTED  BANDAGE 
his  bedroom,  in  Ben  Armstrong's 
room.  He  hurried  into  the  public 
hall,  saw  the  door  wide  open  into 
Ben's  apartment,  went  in  and  found 
Ben  shot  dead.  Trying  to  use  the 
telephone  to  call  help,  he  found  it 
was  out  of  order.  So  he  rushed 
again  into  the  hall  toward  the  ele 
vator  with  the  idea  of  getting  Dr. 
Avery,  who  lived  below  on  the  second 
floor.  The  elevator  door  was  open 
also,  and  a  man's  opera-hat  lay 
near  it  on  the  floor;  he  saw,  just  in 
time,  that  the  car  was  at  the  bottom 
of  the  shaft,  almost  stepping  inside, 
in  his  excitement,  before  he  noticed 
this.  Then  he  ran  down  the  stairs 
with  Jack's  hat  in  his  hand,  and  got 
Dr.  Avery,  and  they  found  Jack  at 
the  foot  of  the  elevator  shaft.  It 
was  known  that  Ben  Armstrong  and 

[14] 


THE  LIFTED  BANDAGE 
Jack  had  quarrelled  the  day  before; 
it  was  known  that  Jack  was  quick 
tempered;  it  is  known  that  he 
bought  that  evening  the  pistol  which 
was  found  on  the  floor  by  Ben, 
loaded,  with  one  empty  shell.  That's 
the  story." 

The  steady  voice  stopped  a  mo 
ment  and  the  young  man  shiv 
ered  slightly;  his  look  was  strained. 
Steadily  he  went  on. 

"That's  the  story.  From  that 
the  coroner's  jury  have  found  that 
Jack  killed  Ben  Armstrong — that  he 
bought  the  pistol  to  kill  him,  and 
went  to  his  rooms  with  that  purpose ; 
that  in  his  haste  to  escape,  he  missed 
seeing  that  the  elevator  was  down, 
as  Mr.  Newbold  all  but  missed  see 
ing  it  later,  and  jumped  into  the 
shaft  and  was  killed  instantly  him- 

[15] 


THE  LIFTED  BANDAGE 
self.  That's  what  the  jury  get  from 
the  facts,  but  it  seems  to  me  they're 
begging  the  question.  There  are  a 
hundred  hypotheses  that  would  fit 
the  case  of  Jack's  innocence — why  is 
it  reasonable  to  settle  on  the  one  that 
means  his  guilt?  This  is  my  idea. 
Jack  and  Ben  Armstrong  had  been 
friends  since  boyhood  and  Jack, 
quick-tempered  as  he  was,  was  warm 
hearted  and  loyal.  It  was  like  him 
to  decide  suddenly  to  go  to  Ben  and 
make  friends.  He  had  been  to  a 
play  in  the  evening  which  had  more 
or  less  that  motif ;  he  was  open  to 
such  influences.  It  was  like  the  pair 
of  them,  after  the  reconciliation,  to 
set  to  work  looking  at  Jack's  new 
toy,  the  pistol.  It  was  a  brand-new 
sort,  and  the  two  have  been  inter 
ested  always  in  guns — I  remember 

[161 


THE  LIFTED  BANDAGE 
how  I,  as  a  youngster,  was  impressed 
when  Ben  and  Jack  bought  their 
first  shot-guns  together.  Jack  had 
got  the  pistol  at  Mellingham's  that 
evening,  you  know — he  was  likely  to 
be  keen  about  it  still,  and  then — it 
went  off.  There  are  plenty  of  other 
cases  where  a  man  has  shot  his 
friend  by  accident — why  shouldn't 
poor  Jack  be  given  the  benefit  of 
the  doubt  ?  The  telephone  wouldn't 
work;  Jack  rushed  out  with  the 
same  idea  which  struck  Mr.  Newbold 
later,  of  getting  Dr.  Avery — and  fell 
down  the  shaft. 

"For  me  there  is  no  doubt.  I 
never  knew  him  to  hold  malice.  He 
was  violent  sometimes,  but  that  he 
could  have  gone  about  for  hours 
with  a  pistol  in  his  pocket  and  mur 
der  in  his  heart;  that  he  could  have 

[17] 


THE  LIFTED  BANDAGE 
planned  Ben  Armstrong's  death  and 
carried  it  out  deliberately — it's  a 
contradiction  in  terms.  It's  impos 
sible,  being  Jack.  You  must  know 
this — you  know  your  son — you  know 
human  nature." 

The  rapid  resume  was  but  an  im 
passioned  appeal.  Its  answer  came 
after  a  minute;  to  the  torrent  of 
eager  words,  three  words: 

"Thank  you,  Dick." 

The  absolute  lack  of  impression  on 
the  man's  judgment  was  plain. 

"Ah!"  The  clergyman  sprang  to 
his  feet  and  stood,  his  eyes  blazing, 
despairing,  looking  down  at  the  bent, 
listless  figure.  How  could  he  let  a 
human  being  suffer  as  this  one  was 
suffering?  Quickly  his  thoughts 
shifted  their  basis.  He  could  not 
affect  the  mind  of  the  lawyer;  might 

[18] 


THE  LIFTED  BANDAGE 
he  reach  now,  perhaps,  the  soul  of 
the  man  ?  He  knew  the  difficulty, 
for  before  this  his  belief  had  crossed 
swords  with  the  agnosticism  of  his 
uncle,  an  agnosticism  shared  by  his 
father,  in  which  he  had  been  trained, 
from  which  he  had  broken  free  only 
five  years  before.  He  had  faced  the 
batteries  of  the  two  older  brains  at 
that  time,  and  come  out  with  the 
brightness  of  his  new-found  faith 
untarnished,  but  without,  he  re 
membered,  scratching  the  armor  of 
their  profound  doubt  in  everything. 
One  could  see,  looking  at  the  slender 
black  figure,  at  the  visionary  gaze 
of  the  gray  wide  eyes,  at  the  shape 
of  the  face,  broad-browed,  ovalled, 
that  this  man's  psychic  make-up 
must  lift  him  like  wings  into  an 
atmosphere  outside  a  material,  out- 

[19] 


THE  LIFTED  BANDAGE 
side  even  an  intellectual  world.  He 
could  breathe  freely  only  in  a  spirit 
ual  air,  and  things  hard  to  believe  to 
most  human  beings  were,  perhaps, 
his  every-day  thoughts.  He  caught 
a  quick  breath  of  excitement  as  it 
flashed  to  his  brain  that  now,  pos 
sibly,  was  coming  the  moment  when 
he  might  justify  his  life,  might  help 
this  man  whom  he  loved,  to  peace. 
The  breath  he  caught  was  a  prayer; 
his  strong,  nervous  fingers  trembled. 
He  spoke  in  a  tone  whose  concen 
tration  lifted  the  eyes  below  him, 
that  brooded,  stared. 

"I  can't  bear  it  to  stand  by  and 
see  you  go  under,  when  there's  help 
close.  You  said  that  if  you  could 
believe  that  they  were  living,  that 
you  would  have  them  again,  you 
would  be  perfectly  happy  no  matter 

[20] 


THE  LIFTED  BANDAGE 

how  many  years  you  must  wait. 
They  are  living  as  sure  as  I  am  here, 
and  as  sure  as  Jack  wTas  here,  and 
Jack's  mother.  They  are  living  still. 
Perhaps  they're  close  to  you  now. 
You've  bound  a  bandage  over  your 
eyes,  you've  covered  the  vision  of 
your  spirit,  so  that  you  can't  see; 
but  that  doesn't  make  nothingness 
of  God's  world.  It's  there — here- 
close,  maybe.  A  more  real  world 
than  this— this  little  thing."  With  a 
boyish  gesture  he  thrust  behind  him 
the  universe.  :eWhat  do  we  know 
about  the  earth,  except  effects  upon 
our  consciousness  ?  It's  all  a  matter 
of  inference — you  know  that  better 
than  I.  The  thing  we  do  know  be 
yond  doubt  is  that  we  are  each  of 
us  a  something  that  suffers  and  is 
happy.  How  is  that  something  the 


THE  LIFTED  BANDAGE 
same  as  the  body — the  body  that 
gets  old  and  dies — how  can  it  be? 
You  can't  change  thought  into  mat 
ter — not  conceivably — everybody  ac 
knowledges  that.  Why  should  the 
thinking  part  die  then,  because  the 
material  part  dies  ?  When  the  organ 
is  broken  is  the  organist  dead  ?  The 
body  is  the  hull,  the  covering,  and 
when  it  has  grown  useless  it  will  fall 
away  and  the  live  seed  in  it  will 
stand  free  to  sunlight  and  air — just 
at  the  beginning  of  life,  as  a  plant  is 
when  it  breaks  through  earth  in  the 
spring.  It's  the  seed  in  the  ground, 
and  it's  the  flower  in  the  sunlight, 
but  it's  the  same  thing — the  same 
life — it  is — it  is."  The  boy's  inten 
sity  of  conviction  shot  like  a  flame 
across  the  quiet  room. 

"It  is  the  same  thing  with  us  too. 

[22] 


THE  LIFTED  BANDAGE 
The  same  spirit-substance  underlies 
both  worlds  and  there  is  no  separa 
tion  in  space,  only  in  view-point. 
Life  goes  on — it's  just  transfigured. 
It's  as  if  a  bandage  should  be  lifted 
from  our  eyes  and  we  should  sud 
denly  see  things  in  whose  presence 
we  had  been  always." 

The  rushing,  eager  voice  stopped. 
He  bent  and  laid  his  hand  on  the 
older  man's  and  stared  at  his  face, 
half  hidden  now  in  the  shadows  of 
the  lowering  fire.  There  was  no  re 
sponse.  The  heavy  head  did  not  lift 
and  the  attitude  was  unstirred,  hope 
less.  As  if  struck  by  a  blow  he  sprang 
erect  and  his  fingers  shut  hard.  He 
spoke  as  if  to  himself,  brokenly. 

"He  does  not  believe — a  single 
word — I  say.  I  can't  help  him — I 
can't  help  him." 

[23] 


THE  LIFTED  BANDAGE 

Suddenly  the  clinched  fists  flung 
out  as  if  of  a  power  not  their  own, 
and  his  voice  rang  across  the  room. 

"  God ! "  The  word  shot  from  him 
as  if  a  thunderbolt  fell  with  it. 
"God!  Lift  the  bandage!" 

A  log  fell  with  a  crash  into  the 
fire;  great  battling  shadows  blurred 
all  the  air;  he  was  gone. 

The  man,  startled,  drew  up  his 
bent  shoulders,  and  pushed  back  a 
lock  of  gray  hair  and  stared  about, 
shaking,  bewildered.  The  ringing 
voice,  the  word  that  had  flashed  as 
if  out  of  a  larger  atmosphere — the 
place  wras  yet  full  of  these,  and  the 
shock  of  it  added  a  keenness  to  his 
misery.  His  figure  swung  sideways; 
he  fell  on  the  cushions  of  the  sofa 
and  his  arms  stretched  across  them, 
his  gray  head  lying  heedless;  sobs 

[24] 


THE  LIFTED  BANDAGE 
that   tore   roots   came   painfully;    it 
was  the  last  depth.     Out  of  it,  with 
out  his  volition,  he  spoke  aloud. 

"God,  God,  God!"  his  voice  said, 
not  prayerfully,  but  repeating  the 
sound  that  had  shocked  his  torture. 
The  word  wailed,  mocked,  re 
proached,  defied — and  yet  it  was  a 
prayer.  Out  of  a  soul  in  mortal 
stress  that  word  comes  sometimes 
driven  by  a  force  of  the  spirit  like 
the  force  of  the  lungs  fighting  for 
breath — and  it  is  a  prayer. 

"God,  God,  God!"  the  broken 
voice  repeated,  and  sobs  cut  the 
words.  And  again.  Over  and  over, 
and  again  the  sobbing  broke  it. 

As  suddenly  as  if  a  knife  had 
stopped  the  life  inside  the  body,  all 
sound  stopped.  A  movement  shook 
the  man  as  he  lay  face  down,  arms 

[251 


THE  LIFTED  BANDAGE 
stretched.  Then  for  a  minute,  two 
minutes,  he  was  quiet,  with  a  quiet 
that  meant  muscles  stretched,  nerves 
alert.  Slowly,  slowly  the  tightened 
muscles  of  the  arms  pushed  the 
shoulders  backward  and  upward; 
the  head  lifted;  the  face  turned  out 
ward,  and  if  an  observer  had  been 
there  he  might  have  seen  by  the 
glow  of  the  firelight  that  the  features 
wet,  distorted,  wore,  more  than  all 
at  this  moment,  a  look  of  amaze 
ment.  Slowly,  slowly,  moving  as  if 
afraid  to  disturb  something — a  dream 
— a  presence — the  man  sat  erect  as 
he  had  been  sitting  before,  only  that 
the  rigidity  was  in  some  way  gone. 
He  sat  alert,  his  eyes  wide,  filled 
with  astonishment,  gazing  before  him 
eagerly — a  look  different  from  the 
dull  stare  of  an  hour  ago  by  the 


THE  LIFfED  BANDAGE 
difference    between    hope    and    de 
spair.    His  hands  caught  at  the  stuff 
of    the    divan    on    either   side    and 
clutched  it. 

All  the  time  the  look  of  his  face 
changed;  all  the  time,  not  at  once, 
but  by  fast,  startling  degrees,  the 
gray  misery  which  had  bound  eyes 
and  mouth  and  brow  in  iron  dropped 
as  if  a  cover  were  being  torn  off  and 
a  light  set  free.  Amazement,  doubt 
ing,  incredulous  came  first,  and  with 
that  eagerness,  trembling  and  afraid. 
And  then  hope — and  then  the  fear 
to  hope.  And  hunger.  He  bent 
forward,  his  eyes  peered  into  the 
quiet  emptiness,  his  fingers  gripped 
the  cloth  as  if  to  anchor  him  to  a 
wonder,  to  an  unbelievable  some 
thing;  his  body  leaned — to  some 
thing — and  his  face  now  was  the 

[27] 


THE  LIFTED  BANDAGE 
face   of  a   starved   man,   of  a   man 
dying   from    thirst,    who    sees    food, 
water,  salvation. 

And  his  face  changed;  a  quality 
incredible  was  coming  into  it — joy. 
He  was  transformed.  Lines  softened 
by  magic;  color  came,  and  light  in 
the  eyes;  the  first  unbelief,  the 
amazement,  shifted  surely,  swiftly, 
and  in  a  flash  the  w^hole  man  shone, 
shook  with  rapture.  He  threw  out 
before  him  his  arms,  reaching,  clasp 
ing,  and  from  his  radiant  look  the 
arms  might  have  held  all  happiness. 

A  minute  he  stayed  so  with  his 
hands  stretched  out,  with  face  glow 
ing,  then  slowly,  his  eyes  straining 
as  if  perhaps  they  followed  a  vision 
which  faded  from  them — slowly  his 
arms  fell  and  the  expectancy  went 
from  his  look.  Yet  not  the  light, 

[28] 


THE  LIFTED  BANDAGE 
not  the  joy.  His  body  quivered; 
his  breath  came  unevenly,  as  of  one 
just  gone  through  a  crisis;  every 
sense  seemed  still  alive  to  catch  a 
faintest  note  of  something  exquisite 
which  vanished;  and  with  that  the 
spell,  rapidly  as  it  had  come,  was 
gone.  And  the  man  sat  there  quiet, 
as  he  had  sat  an  hour  before,  and  the 
face  which  had  been  leaden  was 
brilliant.  He  stirred  and  glanced 
about  the  room  as  if  trying  to  adjust 
himself,  and  his  eyes  smiled  as  they 
rested  on  the  familiar  objects,  as  if 
for  love  of  them,  for  pleasure  in 
them.  One  might  have  said  that 
this  man  had  been  given  back  at  a 
blow  youth  and  happiness.  Move 
ment  seemed  beyond  him  yet — he 
was  yet  dazed  with  the  newness  of  a 
marvel — but  he  turned  his  head  and 

[29] 


THE  LIFTED  BANDAGE 

saw  the  fire  and  at  that  put  out  his 
hand  to  it  as  if  to  a  friend. 

The  electric  bell  burred  softly 
in  through  the  house,  and  the 
man  heard  it.  and  his  eyes  rested  in 
quiringly  on  the  door  of  the  library. 
In  a  moment  another  man  stood 
there,  of  his  own  age.  iron-gray. 
strong- featured. 

"Dick  told  me  I  might  come."  he 
said.  "Shall  I  trouble  you?  May 
I  stay  with  yon  awhile  ?M 

The  judge  put  out  his  hand  friend- 
lily,  a  little  vaguely,  much  as  he  had 
put  it  out  to  the  fire.  "Surely,"  he 
said,  and  the  newcomer  was  all  at 
once  aware  of  his  look.  He  started. 

"  You're  not  well,"  he  said.     "You 
must     take     something — whiskey- 
Miller " 

The   butler   moved    in    the   room 


THK   IJFTKD   »A\|>A(;K 

making  lights  here  ;md  (here,  and  lie 

c;mie  (jliickly. 

"No,"  the  jnd-c  S;.i(l.  "I  don't 
want  anything  I  don't  need  any- 
lliini'.  Il's  not  as  you  think.  I'll 
tell  yon  ;i  lion  I.  it." 

Miller  WHS  ^on<»;  Dick's  fjillicr 
u;iilrd,  his  ^;i/<-  fi\rr|  on  the  judge's 
f;irr  ;i!i\iously,  .'ind  for  moments  no 
word  w;is  spoken.  'The  judge  g;i/,ed 
into  the  fire  with  I  In-  ni|>t,  smil 
ing  look  which  h;i.d  so  startled  his 
hrolhcr-in-law.  At  length: 

44  F  don't  know  how  to  tell  you/1 
he  s;iid.  "TlKTe  seem  no  words. 
Something  h;is  h;i|>|>ened,  yet  it's 
diflienll  fo  exphiin." 

H Something  h;i|»|)cnrd?"  the  other 

repented,     hewildered     hut    gu.'irded. 

"I  don't  imdcrshind.      H;is  some  one 

heen  here?      Is  it  ahout — the  trial?" 

I'M] 


THE  LIFTED  BANDAGE 

"No."  A  slight  spasm  twisted  the 
smiling  lines  of  the  man's  mouth,  but 
it  was  gone  and  the  mouth  smiled  still. 

A  horror-struck  expression  gleamed 
for  a  second  from  the  anxious  eyes 
of  the  brother-in-law,  but  he  con 
trolled  it  quickly.  He  spoke  gently. 
"Tell  me  about  it — it  will  do  you 
good  to  talk." 

The  judge  turned  from  the  fire, 
and  at  sight  of  his  flushed  cheeks  and 
lighted  eyes  the  other  shrank  back, 
and  the  judge  saw  it.  "You  need 
n't  be  alarmed,"  he  said  quietly. 
"Nothing  is  wrong  with  me.  But 
something  has  happened,  as  I  told 
you,  and  everything — is  changed." 
His  eyes  lifted  as  he  spoke  and 
strayed  about  the  room  as  if  consid 
ering  a  change  which  had  come  also 
to  the  accustomed  setting. 

[32] 


THE  LIFTED  BANDAGE 
A  shock  of  pity  flashed  from  the 
other,  and  was  mastered  at  once. 
"Can  you  tell  me  what  has  hap 
pened?"  he  urged.  The  judge,  his 
face  bright  with  a  brightness  that 
was  dreadful  to  the  man  who 
watched  him,  held  his  hand  to  the 
fire,  turning  it  about  as  if  enjoying 
the  warmth.  The  other  shivered. 
There  was  silence  for  a  minute.  The 
judge  broke  it,  speaking  thought 
fully: 

"Suppose  you  had  been  born 
blind,  Ned,"  he  began,  "and  no  one 
had  ever  given  you  a  hint  of  the 
sense  of  vision,  and  your  imagination 
had  never  presented  such  a  power  to 
your  mind.  Can  you  suppose  that  ?  " 
"I  think  so — yes,"  the  brother-in- 
law  answered,  with  careful  gentle 
ness,  watching  always  the  illumined 

[33] 


THE  LIFTED  BANDAGE 
countenance.     "Yes,  I  can  suppose 
it." 

"Then  fancy  if  you  will  that  all 
at  once  sight  came,  and  the  world 
flashed  before  you.  Do  you  think 
you'd  be  able  to  describe  such  an 
experience?" 

The  voice  was  normal,  reflective. 
Many  a  time  the  two  had  talked  to 
gether  of  such  things  in  this  very 
room,  and  the  naturalness  of  the 
scene,  and  of  the  judge's  manner, 
made  the  brother-in-law  for  a  second 
forget  the  tragedy  in  which  they  were 
living. 

"Why,  of  course,"  he  answered. 
"If  one  had  never  heard  of  such  a 
power  one's  vocabulary  wouldn't  take 
in  the  wrords  to  describe  it." 

"  Exactly,"  the  judge  agreed. 
"That's  the  point  I'm  making.  Per- 

[34] 


THE  LIFTED  BANDAGE 
haps  now  I  may  tell  you  what  it  is 
that  has  happened.  Or  rather,  I 
may  make  you  understand  how  a 
definite  and  concrete  event  has  come 
to  pass,  which  I  can't  tell  you." 

Alarm  suddenly  expressed  itself 
beyond  control  in  the  brother-in- 
law's  face.  "John,  what  do  you 
mean  ?  Do  you  see  that  you  dis 
tress  me  ?  Can't  you  tell  clearly  if 
some  one  has  been  here — what  it  is, 
in  plain  English,  that  has  hap 
pened  ?" 

The  judge  turned  his  dreamy, 
bright  look  toward  the  frightened 
man.  "I  do  see — I  do  see,"  he 
brought  out  affectionately.  "I'll  try 
to  tell,  as  you  say,  in  plain  English. 
But  it  is  like  the  case  I  put — it  is  a 
question  of  lack  of  vocabulary.  A 
remarkable  experience  has  occurred 

[35] 


THE  LIFTED  BANDAGE 
in  this  room  within  an  hour.  I 
can  no  more  describe  it  than  the 
man  born  blind  could  describe  sight. 
I  can  only  call  it  by  one  name, 
which  may  startle  you.  A  revela 
tion." 

"A  revelation!"  the  tone  expressed 
incredulity,  scarcely  veiled  scorn. 

The  judge's  brilliant  gaze  rested 
undisturbed  on  the  speaker.  "I  un 
derstand — none  better.  A  day  ago, 
two  hours  ago,  I  should  have  an 
swered  in  that  tone.  We  have  been 
trained  in  the  same  school,  and  have 
thought  alike.  Dick  was  here  a 
while  ago  and  said  things — you  know 
what  Dick  would  say.  You  know 
how  you  and  I  have  been  sorry  for 
the  lad — been  indulgent  to  him — 
with  his  keen,  broad  mind  and  that 
inspired  self-forgetfulness  of  his — 

[36] 


THE  LIFTED  BANDAGE 
how  we've  been  sorry  to  have  such 
qualities  wasted  on  a  parson,  a  re 
ligion  machine.  We've  thought  he'd 
come  around  in  time,  that  he  was  too 
large  a  personality  to  be  tied  to  a 
treadmill.  We've  thought  that  all 
along,  haven't  we  ?  Well,  Dick  was 
here,  and  out  of  the  hell  where  I 
was  I  thought  that  again.  When  he 
talked  I  thought  in  a  way — for  I 
couldn't  think  much — that  after  a 
consistent  voyage  of  agnosticism,  I 
wouldn't  be  whipped  into  snivelling 
belief  at  the  end,  by  shipwreck.  I 
would  at  least  go  down  without  sur 
rendering.  In  a  dim  way  I  thought 
that.  And  all  that  I  thought  then, 
and  have  thought  through  my  life,  is 
nothing.  Reasoning  doesn't  weigh 
against  experience.  Dick  is  right." 
The  other  man  sat  before  him, 

[37] 


THE  LIFTED  BANDAGE 
bent  forward,  his  hands  on  his  knees, 
listening,  dazed.  There  was  a  qual 
ity  in  the  speaker's  tone  which  made 
it  necessary  to  take  his  words  seri 
ously.  Yet — the  other  sighed  and 
relaxed  a  bit  as  he  waited,  watched. 
The  calm  voice  went  on. 

"The  largest  event  of  my  life 
has  happened  in  the  last  hour,  in 
this  room.  It  was  this  way.  When 
Dick  went  out  I — went  utterly  to 
pieces.  It  was  the  farthest  depth. 
Out  of  it  I  called  on  God,  not  know 
ing  what  I  did.  And  he  answered. 
That's  what  happened.  As  if — as 
if  a  bandage  had  been  lifted  from  my 
eyes,  I  was — I  was  in  the  presence 
of  things — indescribable.  There  was 
no  change,  only  that  where  I  was 
blind  before  I  now  saw.  I  don't 
mean  vision.  I  haven't  words  to 

[38] 


THE  LIFTED  BANDAGE 
explain  what  I  mean.  But  a  world 
was  about  me  as  real  as  this;  it  had 
perhaps  always  been  there;  in  that 
moment  I  was  first  aware  of  it.  I 
knew,  as  if  a  door  had  been  opened, 
what  heaven  means — a  condition  of 
being.  And  I  knew  another  thing 
more  personal — that,  without  ques 
tion,  it  was  right  with  those  I  thought 
I  had  lost  and  that  the  horror  which 
seemed  blackest  I  have  no  need  to 
dread.  I  cannot  say  that  I  saw  them 
or  heard  or  touched  them,  but  I  was 
with  them.  I  understand,  but  I 
can't  make  you  understand.  I  told 
Dick  an  hour  ago  that  if  I  could  be 
lieve  they  were  living,  that  I  should 
ever  have  them  again,  I  should  be 
perfectly  happy.  That's  true  now. 
I  believe  it,  and  I  am — perfectly 
happy." 

[39] 


THE  LIFTED  BANDAGE 
The    listener    groaned    uncontrol 
lably. 

"I  know  your  thought,9'  the  judge 
answered  the  sound,  and  his  eyes 
were  like  lamps  as  he  turned  them 
toward  the  man.  "  But  you're 
wrong — my  mind  is  not  unhinged. 
You'll  see.  After  what  I've  gone 
through,  after  facing  eternity  with 
out  hope,  what  are  mere  years? 
I  can  wait.  I  know.  I  am — per 
fectly  happy." 

Then  the  man  who  listened  rose 
from  his  chair  and  came  and  put  a 
hand  gently  on  the  shoulder  of  the 
judge,  looking  down  at  him  gravely. 
"I  don't  understand  you  very  well, 
John,"  he  said,  "but  I'm  glad  of 
anything — of  anything" — his  voice 
went  suddenly.  "Will  you  wait  for 
me  here  a  few  minutes?  I'm  going 

[40] 


THE  LIFTED  BANDAGE 
home  and  I'll  be  back.     I  think  I'll 
spend  the  night  with  you  if  you  don't 
object." 

"Object!  Wait!"  The  judge 
looked  up  in  surprise,  and  with 
that  he  smiled.  "I  see.  Surely. 
I'd  like  to  have  you  here.  Yes,  I'll 
certainly  wait." 

Outside  in  the  hall  one  might  have 
heard  the  brother-in-law  say  a  low 
word  or  two  to  Miller  as  the  man 
helped  him  on  with  his  coat;  then 
the  front  door  shut  softly,  and  he 
was  gone,  and  the  judge  sat  alone, 
his  head  thrown  back  against  his 
chair,  his  face  luminous. 

The  other  man  swung  down  the 
dark  street,  rushing,  agitated.  As 
he  came  to  the  corner  an  electric 
light  shone  full  on  him  and  a  figure 
crossing  down  toward  him  halted. 

[41] 


THE  LIFTED  BANDAGE 

"Father!  I  was  coming  to  find 
you.  Something  extraordinary  has 
happened.  I  was  coming  to  find 
you." 

"Yes,  Dick."  The  older  man 
waited. 

"I've  just  left  Charley  Owen  at 
the  house — you  remember  Charley 
Owen?" 

"No." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  do — he's  been  here 
with — Jack.  He  was  in  Jack's  class 
in  college — in  Jack's  and  Ben  Arm 
strong's.  He  used  to  go  on  shooting 
trips  with  them  both — often." 

"I  remember  now." 

"Yes,  I  knew  you  would."  The 
young  voice  rushed  on.  "He  has 
been  away  just  now — down  in  Flor 
ida  shooting — away  from  civilization. 
He  got  all  his  mail  for  a  month  in 

[421 


THE  LIFTED  BANDAGE 
one  lump — just  now — two  days  ago. 
In  it  was  a  letter  from  Jack  and 
Ben  Armstrong,  written  that  night, 
written  together.  Do  you  see  what 
that  means?" 

"What!"  The  word  was  not 
a  question,  but  an  exclamation. 
"What— Dick!" 

"Yes — yes.  There  were  newspa 
pers,  too,  which  gave  an  account 
of  the  trial — the  first  he'd  heard  of 
it — he  was  away  in  the  Everglades. 
He  started  instantly,  and  came  on 
here  when  he  had  read  the  papers, 
and  realized  the  bearing  his  letter 
would  have  on  the  trial.  He  has 
travelled  day  and  night.  He  hoped 
to  get  here  in  time.  Jack  and  Ben 
thought  he  was  in  New  York.  They 
wrote  to  ask  him  to  go  duck-shooting 
— with  them.  And,  father — here's 

[43] 


THE  LIFTED  BANDAGE 
the  most  startling  point  of  it  all." 
As   the   man    waited,    watching   his 
son's  face,  he  groaned  suddenly  and 
made  a  gesture  of  despair. 

"Don't,  father — don't  take  it  that 
way.  It's  good — it's  glorious — it 
clears  Jack.  My  uncle  will  be  al 
most  happy.  But  I  wouldn't  tell 
him  at  once — I'd  be  careful,"  he 
warned  the  other. 

"What  was  it — the  startling  point 
you  spoke  of?" 

"Oh— surely— this.  The  letter  to 
Charley  Owen  spoke  of  Jack's  new 
pistol — that  pistol.  Jack  said  they 
would  have  target-shooting  with  it 
in  camp.  They  were  all  crack  shots, 
you  know.  He  said  he  had  bought  it 
that  evening,  and  that  Ben  thought 
well  of  it.  Ben  signed  the  letter  after 
Jack,  and  then  added  a  postscript. 

[44] 


THE  LIFTED  BANDAGE 
It  clears  Jack — it  clears  him.  Does 
n't  it,  father?  But  I  wouldn't  tell 
my  uncle  just  yet.  He's  not  fit  to 
take  it  in  for  a  few  hours — don't  you 
think  so?" 

"No,  I  won't  tell  him— just  yet." 

The  young  man's  wide  glance 
concentrated  with  a  flash  on  his 
father's  face.  "What  is  it?  You 
speak  queerly.  You've  just  come 
from  there.  How  is  he — how  is  my 
uncle?" 

There  was  a  letter-box  at  the  cor 
ner,  a  foot  from  the  older  man's 
shoulder.  He  put  out  his  hand  and 
held  to  the  lid  a  moment  before  he 
answered.  His  voice  was  harsh. 

"Your  uncle  is — perfectly  happy," 
he  said.  "He's  gone  mad." 


45] 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROW 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below, 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall 


•     • 


General  Library 


YB  32119 


